The Games We Play
by Mirrordance
Summary: Mirkwood's War Games tests its newest Captain, Legolas Greenleaf. Legolas on the other hand, tests everyone else.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: "The Games We Play"**

Summary: Mirkwood's War Games tests its newest Captain, Legolas Greenleaf. Legolas on the other hand, tests everyone else.

Author's Note: _Hi guys! Thanks to everyone who read, followed, favorited, and especially those who reviewed and PM'd me about my most recent work in "The Halls of My Home." I always think I'm out of ideas, but a kind word here and there is very inspiring indeed. Thank you for your generosity of time and good vibes :)_

 _This new fic, "The Games We Play" is a simple 3-part story that was supposed to be a one-shot for "The Halls of My Home" until it became a bigger beast that eventually demanded its own space. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome! Until then, the first part:_

* * *

1

* * *

There were fifteen captains in King Thranduil's army and it was believed by many that his son Legolas, the prince himself, was quickly rising to be the best among them.

The King tried to remind himself of this, as he stared down the line of disheveled soldiers standing at stiff attention on his right side. There was eleven of them - Legolas front and center standing on his own and behind him, two disciplined rows of five elves each.

 _Discipline_ , Thranduil thought, almost dispassionately. How tall and straight they stood before their King was just about the only indication left of any discipline they had, however.

Inexplicably, they were wildly unkempt. Legolas' hair was mud-caked, and seemingly by design. There were barely any strands of gold visible on his head. His face was slightly less obscured, but certainly deliberately smeared as well.

The female Silvan lieutenant behind him, Golwenil, was wearing pale gold hay over her naturally dark locks. She was not at all muddied, but her tunic and armor were half-drenched in a rich, red dye that covered her from the length of her navel to her neck. The rest of the soldiers around them looked only marginally better, each wearing what could only be described as a carpet of forest leaves. Some of them were barefoot, including the company's standard-bearer, who held aloft a simple deep green banner embroidered with thin, gently arching, pale gold vines and leaves.

Another elf captain and his own ten soldiers stood across from Legolas' bedraggled group. They were separated by naught but a slim column of space, but the difference between them was night and day. This group, led by another captain of some renown, Melchanar, stood on Thranduil's left. In high contrast, they were almost immaculately kept – uniforms relatively clean, and none of them the worse for wear save for the occasional splatter of red dye here and there.

The King examined the two sets of soldiers before him. In all the years he'd been present for the closing ceremonies of the Yen War Games and declared the winner in a ceremony such as this, today's results were the most perplexing. He glanced at his War Minister and friend of long-standing, Brenion, who was standing slightly away from him. Thranduil motioned Brenion closer with a small wave of his long, graceful hand.

" _Aran-nin_?"

In the lowest voice he could muster, Thranduil asked – "You are certain of these results?"

Thranduil saw the mischievous smile in Brenion's eyes, even if the rest of his face remained impassive. "Absolutely, my king. The victors are unequivocally, Legolas and his troop."

Thranduil nodded and dismissed the legendary elven warrior. He turned back to his rapt audience. It was so quiet one could hear a pin drop. Even the trees of the forest were still, as if they too awaited the King's announcement.

"Captain - present your gift to your King," Brenion said to Legolas in a loud, commanding voice.

As instructed, Legolas stepped forward and as he did so, slowly drew out a folded, deep yellow banner from the folds of his tunic. In perfect contrast to his filthy appearance, the cloth was pristine. This was, after all, a present for the King. He fell to a knee before Thranduil and raised the present over his head, by two hands, as an offering.

" _Aran-nin_ ," he said, in keeping with a warrior's tradition, "Our company presents to you - the standard of the felled enemy. As our swords and bows and our blood and bodies belong to you – so does our victory."

Thranduil lowered his head reverently as he accepted the offering. It was tradition too, that the King should favor the champion of the Yen War Games with a rare bow. But the one he gave his son was especially immaculate and careful. It was the first time Legolas participated in the Games as a Captain, and though Thranduil always expected his son to win in anything, the amount of pleasure it gave him now and how his heart warmed and swelled was something he never could have imagined.

"I commend your victory and accept your offering, Captain," Thranduil declared, and the branches of the trees around them shook as if in applause, pleased at the victory of this child of the forest. Thranduil took the banner from Legolas and handed it to a waiting attendant. "Rise," he commanded his son.

Legolas did so, and stood at attention before his father. His blue eyes were dancing with pride, and Thranduil almost smiled. At a signal from the King, another set of attendants came forward, this time bearing a large, thick, mithril-studded and metal-bound book, as well as a silver tray holding a bejeweled knife and a pot of ink. On another tray, resting on a bed of blinding white satin, was a brooch of brushed white gold bursting outward from a thumbnail-sized, deep, brilliant green diamond.

"May you never know defeat," Thranduil said, "and may your people and your land, always know and treasure your name. Come forward and mark your way into our histories."

The thick book was opened to a blank page, and one by one, each of Legolas' ten soldiers stepped forward and wrote their name. Legolas was last, and along with inking in his name, he took the knife from the tray and also cut into his palm and marked their company's page with drops of his blood. A waiting attendant handed him clean, white cloths to wipe and bind the small wound with.

"To your Captain I also present," Thranduil continued, "a gift harvested from our Earth and crafted by our hands." The King then preceded to pin the brooch on the collar of Legolas' muddied tunic.

The distinct brooch was something awarded to the Captain of the victorious team during the Yen War Games. They were worn proudly during formal occasions and ceremonies as a mark of merit. Thranduil had an exact one on at that moment, as did Brenion. But it was known that the former Captains owned a number of them from multiple victories.

Thranduil turned away from Legolas and faced the defeated Captain Melchanar and his company. An attendant came up beside the King with the folded yellow standard of the losing team that Legolas handed him earlier, while another servant laid to the ground a large, wide, metal bowl and built a fire upon it. Thranduil tossed the yellow cloth in, and everyone watched as it burned.

"If defeat should ever be known," Thranduil said into the silence, "Do not ever forget it. Breathe it, taste it. Let it seep into your bones. Let it scar. Let it teach you. Know it intimately, so that you may always always be able to say – 'Never again' and 'Not on my watch.'"

The banner turned to ash, and the elves let it be kicked up by the winds of autumn and fading.

"Today is the _Alaglach_ ," Thranduil said, "The Feast of 'Rushing Flame.' Once every 144 years on a fine moonless night, the skies will burst with the light of thousands of shooting stars. Tonight, it also marks the end of autumn and fading, and ushers in the winter. The furious light of the _Alaglach_ gives us strength and warmth for the coming shade and cold. It reminds us that the brightest stars shine most brilliantly in the dark – in the heavens above, and within our own people on the Earth.

"As our War Games this yen comes to an end," he continued, "and a new set of victorious names make a home of our books, let us celebrate that light in each of our soldiers. May they always shine bright, even in the darkest night."

The soldiers bowed to their King as he concluded his remarks. Thranduil nodded to them in acknowledgement, before yielding the floor to Brenion.

"You all did well," Brenion told the soldiers, "You may now return to the King's Halls. If you leave promptly, you should be able to get back with time to spare before tonight's merrymaking. Congratulations."

The group waited for Thranduil to turn his back on them before they dispersed. As the elves around them left, Legolas stepped forward and stood beside his father.

"How are the preparations for _Alaglach_ progressing?" he asked. Thranduil had arrived at the northeastern outpost but moments ago, just in time for the Yen War Games' closing ceremonies.

"Galion has everything well in order as is usual," Thranduil replied. There was a topic that interested him far more. "Congratulations on your victory, _ion-nin_. From the looks of you, it must be some tale to tell."

"I apologize for my appearance."

"I find it makes me more curious than displeased," Thranduil confessed. "Have you time to regale an old soldier of this tale?" he asked in sham gravity.

"Old, you? I'd never believe it." Legolas laughed. "The better question is – if _aran-nin_ has time to hear it."

Thranduil frowned. It was true, he was pressed for time. He was running a kingdom and keeping darkness at bay. He was involved in diplomatic relations and internal affairs. Specifically for this day, he had come from his Halls to close the Yen War Games here at the northeastern outpost, but was expected back in a few hours for the _Alaglach_ feast. But his son had just won a coveted contest, and he wanted to hear about it.

"There is time," Thranduil said evenly.

Legolas grinned. "Then come with me, ada."

* * *

The Yen War Games were held once every 144 years. It was a contest among Mirkwood's Captains of stealing each other's banners. First, the fifteen captains picked the best ten soldiers of his company. He along with his selected soldiers, would thereafter participate in stepladder matches of standard-stealing, up until there were only two teams left.

This yen, those two teams were headed by Melchanar, a seasoned captain; and Legolas, a promising but freshly-minted one. Dor-winion was probably exchanging hands aplenty now, thought Thranduil, as word reached the stronghold and its surrounding outposts that the smart money – on Melchanar and his experience – did not follow through. Legolas was good but raw, the naysayers had said. The King himself stood to make a killing though, having made an anonymous bet on his son through his attendant, Galion.

Thranduil wondered if his old friend Brenion, a long-standing champion of his son, had made good too. The War Minister was currently following close behind them, both as protection for the King but mostly out of his own curiosity on how Legolas managed his victory against the formidable Melchanar. The decorated captain had won the Yen Games before.

Legolas led them before a thick tree holding a flat platform of sturdy wood. This _talan_ was one of two in the northeastern outpost put up for use in the Games.

All around them, eager soldiers were packing their things and getting ready to set out for the King's Halls a few hours' ride away. The small band of soldiers who had to remain for duties at the border were the only ones moving leisurely, for they had no _Alaglach_ feast to rush home to. Thranduil was so cheered by his son's victory that he made a mental note to send these soldiers some of his winnings in consolation. He would tell Galion. Galion would take care of it.

"Just as in the previous years," Legolas said, "we had two day and one night to try and take each other's standards, which were planted on the center of our respective _telain_. Also just as before, we could use any strategy we felt necessary, as long as we did not destroy the surrounding environs, or cause serious harm to our fellow-soldiers. Dulled weapons only, including arrowheads that have bags of red dye that burst on contact. Based on the positioning of the dye on the body, the War Games officials judged if a member of the team was eliminated due to 'death' or 'disability.'"

"How many soldiers did your group lose?" Thranduil asked, remembering the female lieutenant all but swimming in 'blood.'

"Only one," Legolas replied proudly.

"How many did Captain Melchanar lose?"

"All of them."

Thranduil was shocked. "But they barely had specks of red upon them to mark any fatal hits."

"They removed their helmets to stand before you for the ceremony," Legolas explained. "All had taken and been eliminated by head shots, _adar_."

Brenion was beaming. "No wonder Melchanar looks enraged."

"So you shot at them from a distance," Thranduil asked, "and just about walked in to take your prize?"

"I wish it were so easy," Legolas said with a smile. As they neared the base of the tree with the stairs leading up to Legolas' _talan_ , their steps made uncharacteristically loud, crunching sounds beneath their light elven feet. Thranduil looked down on the ground, and realized it was strewn thickly with twigs and dried leaves. This carpet of noise was massed on the immediate area around the tree.

"Melchanar's played and won this game before," Legolas explained. "Tales of his feats at the Yen Games are the stuff of envy for us younger elves coming up the ranks. That was his main disadvantage – that he had very specific techniques which were known to us. He, for example, is known to spend a disproportionate amount of time targeting the other team's captain. Cut off the head, and the others are likely to scramble. He takes advantage of even the slightest distraction when the leader is felled, and then he comes in full force for the kill and the win."

"Golwenil," Brenion said in realization, referring to Legolas' lieutenant, the female Silvan whose tunic was drenched in red dye.

Legolas grinned. "She was pretending to be me while I muddied my hair and pretended to be someone else."

Thranduil scoffed. "A headful of bad hay is no substitute for your golden head, ion. Melchanar could not have been so easily fooled."

"Of course not," Legolas conceded. "But that is just the barest of what we did. Melchanar does not attack right away, _adar_ , everyone knows that. He is very restrained. He thinks things through first."

"You could use some of that," Brenion teased.

Legolas was so relaxed in the company of his father and their old friend, and so suffused with his decisive victory over a soldier he considered admirable, that he rolled his eyes and laughed. Thranduil thought he looked childlike again. He didn't see unguarded expressions on his son's face as much as he used to.

"So we took advantage of his reserve and made the first move," Legolas regaled. "Something ambiguous, something distracting that would give him pause. I had one of my best warriors with me – Renior. Great hands, bad cook. Almost cursed, actually. Give him a pot and a flame and he can singe and somehow foul water, mark my word. I had him create a smoke screen."

"Elven eyes are too sharp for such obstructions," Brenion pointed out.

"You overestimate our eyes," Legolas said good-naturedly, "and underestimate Renior's singular awfulness at cooking. We may see great distances, my lord Brenion, but our gazes can hardly penetrate through solid matter. Renior's smoke was thick and heavy. Not enough to blind, but enough to completely obscure, just enough to mislead.

"While Melchanar and his party pondered that," Legolas continued, "we went about our own plans under cover. We'd more or less taken their eyes for a while, so we set upon taking away their stealth. The twigs beneath your feet we had collected from the environs, all too generous with dried, noisy things this season at the end of autumn. Any who stepped here would be heard by us easily, and the sound would be suggestive of their location. When Melchanar's group had two elves scout ahead at what the smoke was about, we couldn't see them but we picked them off that way. Our archers followed the sound of their steps. The loss of two soldiers made Melchanar more cautious, and we bought ourselves even more time."

"Time for what?" Thranduil asked.

Legolas shrugged. "I was hoping to have picked out more of them in the smoke to be honest, but two was not so bad. Still, we had to think of other ways. We've already taken away their stealth from the ground so next we assumed they might use the trees. We settled there, camouflaging ourselves in leaves. We used spider webbing as adhesive – there are always some to be found in this forest of ours. And then, as the smoke started to clear, Golwenil made her move.

"You see," Legolas explained, "the smoke unavoidably took away our eyes too. But there was a small space in time, between obscured sight and suddenly seeing better as the smoke dissipated. She intentionally gave away her position, and in the blink of an eye, her golden head – such as it is – drew the aim of our enemies. The source of their arrows, on the other hand, gave away their own positions. We picked off five of them thus."

"But there was four left," Brenion said in rapt attention.

"Yes," Legolas agreed, "and I must admit I was running out of ideas. But Melchanar thought that with Golwenil's fall, they've achieved his plan of targeting the Captain. So they gambled with an open attack, to take advantage of the disarray that usually follows a commander's loss. He had to give everything he had, because that window was fleeting. So they all took to open ground, and we shot at them from the trees."

He grinned at his father and the War Minister. "Oh, ada. We hopped from the branches and really did just walk up to their _talan_ to take the standard. It was glorious. They watched us miserably. I think I might have a growing, unhealthy passion for winning."

Brenion laughed. "I know well from whom that comes. You are truly your father's son."

Thranduil was smiling, but his eyes had inexplicably clouded. Legolas was quick to sense it, though he did not know what it was for. Thranduil masked the expression quickly - spotting the questions rising in Legolas' eyes - before his son could open his mouth and ask.

"This is good work, Legolas," he proclaimed. "Unconventional, but a fine account of your skills and knowledge."

"Indeed," Brenion agreed heartily. "Typically as you know, these things are won by attrition. It becomes either siege-like, if one side preferred to hold a defensive stance and the other an offensive one; or sometimes, both sides just took to fighting openly on the ground between the _telain_. 'Casualties' are often much higher all around. In other Games, time runs out without a victor so it ends in a draw. This is an unprecedented win, Captain, something to really consider from this point forward. As it happens, you also have another distinction that might delight you, _hir-nin_." He glanced at Thranduil, "though not so much perhaps you, _aran-nin_."

"What would that be?" Legolas asked.

"This is Legolas' first time to play in the Yen Games as a Captain," Brenion said. "and he has already won it. He is therefore, I believe, the first, first-time Captain to emerge as victor."

Thranduil looked at his son wryly. "Oh, I think he knows that."

Legolas laughed. He did know it, but he was waiting for someone to say it.

"I did admit to an unhealthy desire to win," he said. He was happy enough that he could let his father's previously troubled expression go, at least for now. Thranduil was a busy king with a lot on his mind, it really could have been anything.

* * *

The three elves made their way back to the main camp to prepare for their own departures. What met them when they returned was atypical of an elven encampment. There was a commotion strongly resembling a brawl.

"What madness has befallen everyone here?" Thranduil demanded.

The King's distinct voice and particular, commanding tone stopped everyone in their tracks, but not immediately for the elves at the center of the melee. They were caught up in each other, Legolas' she-elf lieutenant Golwenil and Melchanar's towering loyal second, Nethor.

"You know as well as I that children's games and parlor tricks have no place in a real war!" Nethor was insisting.

"No one likes a sore loser, _mellon-nin_ ," Golwenil seethed. "You have no right to sully our victory by your own small-mindedness!"

"You will perish in moments out there, when the fighting is real!"

"You forget yourself!" she snapped. "We have been out there, every day, just like you. It is your conceit that got you eliminated in this contest, and it is conceit that will bring you to ruin if-"

"Golwenil," Legolas said quietly, and she hushed promptly. The Prince had realized, just as his father and Brenion did, that the victory he'd been so proud of but seconds ago was not well-received. Golwenil's face flushed and she bowed to her commander and her King in shame.

"I could not let the slander stand, hir-nin," she said. "But I will accept punishment for my own shameful actions."

Nethor's jaws were set tight. He was embarrassed too, but did not know how to deal with it. Melchanar, as he was wont to, took responsibility for his subordinate's actions even if he looked as if he too had just arrived to find chaos.

"We have conducted ourselves poorly," he said with a bow to the King and a nod to Legolas. "I apologize to the King for this display of poor sportsmanship. And I apologize to my brother-Captain, that he had to hear what had been said."

"You do not have to apologize for anything, Melchanar!" protested the hot-headed Nethor. Melchanar was ice cold where Nethor was spitting fire. The reverse was true of Legolas and Golwenil; his even-tempered lieutenant was the eye to his storm, and that made today's display doubly surprising. Golwenil was not prone to theatrics, as a matter of fact she was Legolas' calming second. The words against their victory must have been harsh indeed for her to entangle herself in an argument over it.

But what Nethor missed, Legolas did not. Melchanar was not apologizing for what had been said; he was apologizing that Legolas had to hear it. Legolas knew then that his victory was ill-received by Melchanar, whom he adored, and almost undoubtedly by other like-minded elves. He wondered then if that was why his father had looked troubled earlier, and it made his heart ache. It also made him a little reckless.

"Yes," Legolas agreed, "You needn't apologize, Captain. But what you have to say perhaps you should say to me, not of me to your disgruntled soldiers, eh?"

The two elves seemed oblivious to it, but they started to drift closer to each other, until they were face to face and but an arm's length apart. Melchanar opened his mouth, but his eyes darted to Thranduil before he shut it promptly.

"Worry not of him," Legolas said darkly, "My father does not speak for me here."

Thranduil was certain Legolas was making a mistake and was about to put the confrontation to an end, but he held his tongue after what Legolas had just said. The conflict had embarrassed his son enough, without having to be contradicted by his _adar_ in so public a fashion.

Melchanar was still cautious. "Your tactics, while keeping with the rules set are perhaps – ultimately, not in the spirit of things. These are War Games. The skills displayed and refined are geared for winning a real battle. We cannot survive by games and tricks." He glanced at Thranduil and lowered his head. "But that is merely one lowly soldier's opinion."

"And what would constitute a more decisive victory for you?" Legolas snapped. "Would meeting me by hand, knife, bow or sword merit your satisfaction, Captain?"

Melchanar was wise enough not to rise to the challenge. Whether it was by Legolas' royal rank, Thranduil's presence, or his own sense of propriety, he was eager to let the conflict end.

"Your victory was a decisive one, Legolas," Melchanar said with a small bow of concession. "I am satisfied, not that it should have been any bother to _hir-nin_." He looked at his soldiers pointedly. "We all are."

"No-" Legolas began to argue.

Brenion put a halt to things. "The gods help me this shameful display has me on the brink - on the very brink!- of sentencing all transgressors to station here and completely miss out on the feast at the King's Halls." But he wasn't going to do that – he knew it would only vilify Legolas more, even if unfairly. "You have embarrassed yourselves before the King and more importantly – you've shamed me. Now scatter before I change my mind!"

The elves were quick to do as they were ordered by the war minister. Melchanar lowered his head again at Legolas. He was not unkind, and really was sorry at what the Prince had heard. But whatever the reckless Nethor said had already been said, there was no taking it back now. With a quick bow at Thranduil, he excused himself and set off to prepare for travel back to the stronghold.

"Do not worry about what they think so much, Captain," Brenion said to Legolas. "You see things differently, you always have." Thranduil wished he had said that, because when Brenion left father and son alone together, he found he had nothing in him to bring comfort. It must hurt, to have an achievement so questioned.

"You won fairly, _ion-nin_ ," Thranduil assured him.

"I know."

Silence. Legolas usually filled these things up but he was not inclined to at that moment.

"Small minds will think small thoughts," Thranduil added.

"It is not what they think that most pains me," Legolas said. Thranduil looked at him in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

Legolas shook his head. "Never mind. I believe you are needed prior to the ceremonies, _aran-nin_."

"Are you dismissing me?" Thranduil attempted to kid.

Legolas was in not the mood to indulge him. "I need to make myself presentable for the _Alaglach_. Excuse me, father. I will see you at the stronghold."

He turned his back on the king without being dismissed, and dashed off to do what he sometimes does; to brood. Thranduil knew to let him have room to breathe and gather himself. His son was so like a wounded animal whenever he was hurting, be it in body or heart. He always returned, once he'd sorted himself out.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	2. Chapter 2

_**hi guys!**_

 _First off, thanks to all all the support for the first chapter of_ The Games We Play _, and for my Teitho entry_ A Father Dreams _, now posted as the third stand-alone chapter to the series_ The Halls of My Home _. I should be turning to other things, like reviewer responses and RL work, lol, but I have a lot on my mind and I am in one of those reckless posting moods. At any rate, this chapter shares some similarities with _A Father Dreams _, so maybe that's why I am antsy to get it out of there already._

 _I really should wait to post, and let a story gather some readers and reviewers, but sometimes I just can't help myself. So... feed a writer if you can, and let me know what you think ;) As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome. I hope you enjoy reading this second chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Third and final and rather long chapter is almost done and may follow sooner than we all would like, if this mood of mine continues! At any rate, Chapter 2:_

* * *

2

* * *

The road home was a short one, for little more than a few hours lay between the northeastern outpost and the King's halls. It was unremarkable and well-trodden by their kin, a path the King was comfortable traversing with minimal company not only for himself but also for his son and heir.

Legolas was confident he could take it quickly, especially with only his two royal guard for company; they knew how to keep up with him. So he took his time at the baths, and occupied himself with reconciling his tumultuous thoughts.

Little by little he rinsed off mud and grime and the shame he felt about a victory that was, just moments ago, quite cherished. Small minds will think their small thoughts, his father had said too. But if that was the case, why then did he look so troubled when Legolas was explaining how his little band won? Did his _adar_ think, as Melchanar and his defeated soldiers did, that Legolas' tactics were no more than child's play?

His pride stung with the disapproval of his fellow soldiers, especially one as esteemed as Melchanar. But it was nothing compared to even the barest possibility that his father may have felt the same.

 _At least Brenion is happy_ , he thought. If the War Minister himself found Legolas' victory fitting, then who was anyone else ( _save for the King of course_ ) to say otherwise?

He almost wished the next games were soon. Tomorrow, if possible. The Yen War Games upended the regular schedules but he liked winning, and was now hungry for a chance to prove his victory had not been a fluke.

 _I am as good as all the rest of them_ , he reminded himself. _Time and again I've showed what I can do. I will not let this victory be taken from me._

He let the bold thought fill his head, but it wasn't quite enough to ease his heart. What it did effectively though, was that it occupied him for so long that few elves were left lingering around the outpost by the time he emerged from the bath. Fewer elves meant fewer eyes to see that Nethor's outburst and Melchanar's non-apology had hurt him.

After dressing, he and his royal guards were the last of the elves set to leave for the Alaglach celebrations at the Elvenking's Halls. The only ones left manning the northeastern outpost were the soldiers who had drawn the short straw, and therefore assigned duties at the border on this precious night of celebrations.

Legolas was almost tempted to stay among them, the better to avoid more people. But there were ceremonies he had to stand for as Prince, not to mention that his father would certainly worry.

He and his guards set out.

He was lost in thought as they rode a quick but familiar path through the trees. It was due to his preoccupations that he was last amongst his small party to sense that something was amiss.

One of his guards reached for his forearm protectively and stilled his reins, while the other moved ahead of them and called for a halt.

The trees were stiff with fear. The air reeked suddenly of blood and foulness. The sounds of clashing swords were staggered and fading. There were unwelcome voices in the wind and, suggestive of who was winning the encounter, dark laughter.

Legolas was last to be aware but by foolishness, valor or love or all three, he was first to act.

" _Adar_ ," was his first thought, and the only word he could find voice to before he shook himself free of his escorts and left them his horse and reins. He shot forward, leaving his guards cussing quietly behind him.

One of them gave immediate chase, while the other dismounted with care to ensure the horses stayed where they were; they needed stealth for now. They knew not what they were about to face, yet. The mounts they would need for transport or escape later.

As Legolas neared the source of the sounds and smells, he forced himself to think of stealth too, and as step by step he came closer, he calmed. His heart slowed, his mind cleared, and by cover of his beloved trees he tried to get a better sense of what he was dealing with before jumping into the fray. His guards caught up with him in just this way. They looked relieved that his training – and good sense – had kicked in.

What they found required all the control Legolas could muster to keep from blindly coming forward. His father was back to back to back with his War Minister Brenion, and a healer the Elvenking usually traveled with. Thranduil was holding aloft his mighty sword and swinging it with his usual brutal, beautiful force. It slashed across the air in wide, elegant arcs. The blade was so sharp and its wielder so strong that it cut into the enemy's flesh and muscle and bone seamlessly and almost soundlessly.

Legolas watched, arrested for a breathless moment. It was a day he hoped would never come - that the wary peace they were more or less surviving would end, and that war would necessitate both him and his father to fight the enemy on the same field of battle. They've never fought side by side, and he'd only ever heard of Thranduil's legendary prowess. But even if he never wanted to see his father fight, it really was a sight to behold now that it was before him. It was so captivating that it took Legolas a beat before he noticed his _adar_ was bleeding heavily.

Thranduil was gray-faced and slowing. Pressed close to his body was his left arm; Legolas couldn't tell if the injury was to the arm or to his chest. Thranduil just compressed them together and so they were equally drenched in red. It was a scandalous amount of blood, rich red and vital. It came out in small spurts. Thranduil leaked angry drops on the ground. Splatters of it swung with his blade when he moved his body to attack and parry.

Legolas knew the wound would be fatal if left that way for much longer.

Brenion, fighting alongside the King, was also injured and fared no better. The healer beside them was not in his element and barely holding his own too. They were all hurt in some fashion. They were on their last legs, and the remnants of an orc patrol was circling them slowly and methodically. Strewn around them were bodies of elves and orcs alike.

Legolas counted their foes - the orcs numbered eight, which made for great odds in their favor. He contemplated his next move carefully. He and his guards could come at them in surprise, but the orcs might close in and overwhelm Brenion, the healer and the King. Legolas could shoot at the enemy with his arrows from where they were, but the quarters were too tight for him to succeed at this with the speed required.

He looked up at the trees, and found more than a few sturdy branches that hung overhead, some right above Thranduil's party. Legolas and his guards could jump right into the middle of their narrowing circle and thus, shield the injured elves away from the fighting.

He looked at his two guards, who were thinking along the same lines, if a bit more apprehensively because it contradicted their main charge – Legolas' protection. But with the King bleeding and his son willing to kill anything to get to his side, there was no asking Legolas to sit this one out. They've spent enough time with the Prince to know him well.

The three elves quickly and quietly made their way up the trees, and then hovered at the branches over the combating elves and orcs' heads, barely even shaking the drying leaves.

Legolas gave out a low whistle, mimicking a native bird his kin would know as being away from the forest for the cooling season. They would know the call was issued by an elf, and that help was coming. After all, it wouldn't do anyone any good if Legolas and his men jumped into the fight, only to have the swaying King or his two companions swinging swords at them. The three ailing elves did not look up at their rescuers, but Thranduil lowered his sword slightly in acknowledgement.

Legolas and his guards took it as signal enough to charge. They descended from the trees already swinging, and had taken down an orc each just at the descent. It immediately widened the narrowing circle around the elves.

Legolas landed in front of his father to protect him. Thranduil growled at him in displeasure, and dodged around his son to stand beside him.

"See to the wound, _adar_ ," Legolas said under his breath, barely missing a beat as he fought back an orc that stepped toward him, and swung widely at one that dared to even just look at his father. His reflexes were faster than the injured and deteriorating Elvenking's by now. He blocked his father's way again.

"Stand down, _adar_!" Legolas implored as he dispatched another foe. He knew Thranduil could be stubborn, but he needed to sit down and stem the flow of all that blood, before the loss of more of it killed him. Legolas had no choice but to be cruel. "You're in my way, _aran-nin_! You're going to get me killed!"

Thranduil growled at him but finally did as he was bid.

"See to father!" Legolas commanded the healer, and covered the elf, who nodded at him and immediately stepped away from combat. Legolas set concern for his wounded father aside and focused on the fighting. When Thranduil and the healer left his sightline and settled somewhere behind him, he did not even spare a backward glance at them.

Forward he went, taking enemies down blow by blow. It was quick, dirty work. One final orc realized the patrol's loss and started to run away, only for Legolas to take aim at him with an arrow. The foul best fell to a heap on the ground.

Once convinced there was no more immediate threat, Legolas ran to his father's side. Thranduil was still stubbornly up on his knees but shaking and swaying, while the healer pressed a thick cloth vainly against his bleeding arm.

"Help me lie him down," the healer said. Legolas supported the King's head and uninjured side as they both pushed him to rest on his back. The healer kept the injured limb raised slightly above Thranduil's heart. Brenion, now also nearby, hovered over them worriedly. His jaws were set in anger and determination, and his eyes burned. They all knew what a wound like this meant.

"Keep pressing down on the wound," the healer instructed Legolas, who immediately followed as he was told while the healer scurried away to reclaim supplies laid asunder by the melee.

"Legolas," Brenion said quietly, "More orcs are coming. We were unable to prevent the escape of one of the scouts, who had called for reinforcements once we started fighting back. I am sorry." To the drifting Thranduil, he said, "I wasn't enough, _aran-nin_. I am so sorry."

Thranduil waved the apology away. He fought to sit up, but Legolas and Brenion pressed him down.

"We must go," the King said. His voice was hoarse now, and he was paler than fresh snow. His trembling was getting stronger, and his eyes had taken on a glazed vacancy even as he struggled to fight it.

"There is time enough to examine the wound," Legolas assured his father. He didn't know it for a certainty of course, but the only important certainty in a situation like this was that his father's survival came above anything and everything.

The healer returned and took over the wounded side from Legolas. The Prince shuffled to his father's other side, while calling for his royal guards, who were checking for survivors.

"Is anyone else still alive?" he asked quietly, and was immediately met by somber shakes of the head. He had suspected this would be the case; no one could have come so close as to harm the King grievously unless other bodies gave way first. This was the way of their soldiers.

"Can he be moved?" Brenion asked the healer, who was cleaning out and examining the King's injury. Thranduil gasped and hissed, but kept his eyes open and his jaws set. There was no time to give him anything to alleviate his pain. Legolas suspected there would be little need for it soon at any rate. His father's rapt attention was coming and going. The blood loss was taking its toll quickly and with a vengeance, for having been defied so long.

"The cut itself is simple and can be repaired here," the healer reported. "It will be a straightforward procedure. No poison too, small mercies. But it needs tending here and now, the blood loss is already severe as it is. To move him without treatment is to –" he paused and caught himself.

"Speak plainly for the love of the gods," Thranduil snapped at him. Legolas almost smiled except he knew what the healer was going to say even before he was compelled to say it.

"To move him thus will kill him."

"To stay here is to kill him too," Brenion said gravely. "The reinforcements are coming, _aran-nin_. We're lucky to have been spared this long. I guess we caught them unawares too."

Thranduil struggled to stay aware and in control. He tried to blink himself to better focus and attention, but his struggles only made him look more ill. His eyes fluttered as he hovered on the edges of cold, dark – perhaps eternal – oblivion.

"Take him from here," the King gasped up at his old friend. "I am gone. You need to save him, now more than ever."

There was only one "him" the King could have spoken of in this way, and everyone's heads turned toward his son, Legolas. Everyone's that is, except Brenion's. The war minister was quick to act upon the King's command. He gathered his feet and reached for Legolas' arm. The Prince backed away and dodged it cleanly, not that Brenion gave the initial try much effort. He already knew to bear Legolas away from his ailing father's side would be an uphill battle and required reinforcements. When the prince evaded his grip, he immediately waved over Legolas' two royal guards.

Legolas abruptly straightened and raised a hand to halt them all. "One step toward me with such intent and I swear on my name you are dead to me."

"Legolas," Thranduil called out, but he was fading, and the one word he was able to say that could encapsulate his longing, regrets, fears, hope and love – was his son's name. Legolas ignored him studiously, even though it hurt him to do so.

"Legolas," Thranduil moaned again, and his breaths stuttered. It was an order. It was a plea. Everyone was still as king and prince, father and son, stood on this wordless stalemate of who would get his way. Only the healer moved furiously.

"Please, Legolas,"Brenion implored the Prince, "With his dying breath your father is asking-"

"A breath is dying only if one actually dies," Legolas said darkly. His mind was racing. There had to be another way. There was always another way. The best solution couldn't be the death of a King and his son's abandonment. There was no world in which Legolas could accept this.

"If we bear him away like this he dies," Brenion said. "If we stay to tend him we all die. Our duty is to the kingdom and it means saving you. This is as much our responsibility as it is your own."

"If he dies either way," Legolas retorted, "then I am as good as your king already, am I not? Am I not? Then do as I say, otherwise you will reckon with me and I will not be forgiving. Defy Thranduil, just this once and stop arguing with me. Help me save his life and when he lives – when we all live – I will bear the consequences for us all, I swear it."

"But what else can be done?" Brenion asked, exasperated.

Legolas looked away and wracked his brain desperately for an answer.

"Legolas," Thranduil called again, and the Prince closed his eyes in momentary despair. Was he being a fool? Was he ignoring his father's dying wish, risking his beloved kingdom, and be the cause of the death of everyone here just because he was stubborn and blind to the fact that this was one game where even winning meant losing? How did it come to this? Did the day not start out so well, in victory-

His eyes lit up in realization.

Legolas called out to the healer. "Treat him with whatever is needed for him to survive a horse headed home. You will have time and be undisturbed, I promise."

"Yes, _hir-nin_!"

Legolas then ordered one of his royal guards to retrieve the horses they had tethered nearby. The other guard he called forward to aid him.

"The smell of blood and the bodies of our foes and our kin will draw the yrch's reinforcements here," he said. "We need to move them. Our soldiers gave their lives in protection of the King. Let their deaths not spoil their efforts. We can return to bury them properly later."

The soldier immediately went to work, and Legolas turned to Brenion next. "My lord minister. Divest the King and yourselves of clothing soiled by blood. Leave them in a pile, I will have use of them later. Cover whatever tracks of combat we will leave after we move the corpses. Please do not exert yourself to your limit, though – I know you are hurting, and we cannot have another one of us incapacitated." He removed his unstained traveling cloak. "Keep father warm in this. He will need it for the road home."

Brenion favored him with a measuring glance. "More tricks up your sleeve, Captain?"

Legolas winced, even though there hadn't been any malice in the question, just a genuine inquiry on what he was up to, this time.

"The foul beasts hunt as we all do," Legolas said, "by sight, sound and smell. I mean to leave them a false trail away from the King. Please. We are pressed for time."

They all went about their tasks, Legolas and his guard doing the grimmest of them all. It was hard on top of being awful, and moving the bodies were slow going until Legolas' other guard returned with the horses. With one more pair of hands and three beasts of burden, the task was quick. Brenion for his part, covered with dug up soil and aromatic plants the bloodstains and drag marks left of the earlier combat. He had also followed Legolas' instructions of removing their soiled garments, such that he, the healer and Thranduil were down to shirts and breeches. He set the discarded clothing aside.

Legolas and his guards finished just as the healer was bandaging up Thranduil's arm after many harrowing stitches. The King's eyes were half closed and he was as pale and almost translucent as a ghost, but he was alive and they had a fighting chance. All Legolas wanted was a fighting chance.

"The bodies are still too close here," Legolas told Brenion. "We took them as far as we dared, to be able to move everyone in the small time that we had. More needs to be done to sabotage their path here. We need to do more to deviate them away from adar."

Brenion watched with mounting dread as Legolas started putting on his father's discarded, bloodied tunic. The Prince, looking very much like Thranduil now, walked up to Brenion thus outfitted.

"If we survive this and you do not," the war minister hissed at him, "he will kill me. Do you understand your responsibility in my personal welfare?"

"He might kill you either way, Brenion," Legolas smiled at him ruefully, "even if I live." The War Minister rolled his eyes, but clasped Legolas' arm as a brother-soldier.

The Prince then knelt beside his father. He turned his water flask over to wet the ground near Thranduil's head, muddied it, then sank his hands in and ran his fingers through the King's silky, golden hair.

It was to camouflage the eye-catching strands, which seemed to glow in a forest of browns and greens. But it wasn't all function; Legolas derived joy and comfort from holding his father's hair this way. When the strands were stained acceptably – no amount of grime can completely dull that precious head completely after all – he plucked the minor circlet his father usually traveled with from Thranduil's head and planted it on his own.

Thranduil's eyes snapped open then, and hands quicker than his dire health should have allowed grabbed at Legolas' forearm. He was beyond words now, whether by his illness or his anger or his desperation.

"I will lead them away from you, _aran-nin_ ," Legolas explained. He made his voice louder, so that the rest of their party would know of his plans. He ordered the more seasoned of his two guards as well as two brown horses, into the King's company. They would be tasked with the unfathomably important job of getting Thranduil, Brenion, and the healer home to the safety of the King's Halls. His other guard and the one white horse he commandeered for himself, not that he would have been allowed under any circumstance to continue on alone.

"We will do whatever we can to steer the enemy away," he went on. "We will scatter the bloodied clothes, make false tracks. We will not call attention to ourselves, nor will we engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary.

"Do not wait for us," he emphasized. "The moment you are ready, leave, and have a care for covering your tracks. We have the means by which to make our own way home."

He finished, but the King was not letting him go. Thranduil was weakening quickly, but the last of his strength he spent hanging on to his son.

"I will see you at home," Legolas told him softly. He spoke with gentleness, even has he pried Thranduil's fingers with ruthless efficiency, one by one by one by one by one. It hurt them both.

Defied and defeated, Thranduil's eyes fluttered closed, and a solitary tear leaked from them. Legolas reached for his father's face and discreetly wiped it off, so that no one else may see it. He pressed a kiss to Thranduil's crown-bereft forehead, and then, trailed by his loyal guard, he vanished into the trees.

TO BE CONTINUED...


	3. Chapter 3

**hi guys!**

 _So here I am again... the last part of "_ The Games We Play _." Personalized review responses will follow shortly, but in the meantime, I thought the best way to express my gratitude for your kind support is through finishing what I started, closing up that cliffhanger, and posting the end to this little story of mine. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Without further ado, the final chapter of "_ The Games We Play: _"_

 _ **P.S.** Okay, I lied. With some further ado, lol, please look out for my usual Author's Afterword, which will follow directly after "THE END." For those who are curious as to the method behind the madness, this section will be discussing my inspiration for the fic, specifics (and rationalizations lol) on characterizations, sending out reviewer thank you's, and a discussion of future projects :)_

 _ **For real this time** , the final chapter of "_The Games We Play: _"_

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3

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Just as the healer promised, the King's wound was a relatively simple one; it was the loss of blood that presented the real hazard. Once resolved, Thranduil quickly moved away from immediate danger and had started recovering, even on the road back to the King's Halls. He was unconscious but stable by the time they arrived, and was settled comfortably in the private, royal wing of the healing halls.

Thranduil's ministers gathered immediately and headed by his trusted war minister, Brenion, they determined their next course of action. All celebrations of the _Alaglach_ were suspended as the kingdom turned toward the rescue of their prince, the recovery of their dead, and the security of their borders.

The ministers quickly assembled a search and rescue party for Legolas, a company to retrieve their fallen kin, and extra hands to secure and investigate the breach into their lands. The Captain Melchanar, who had recently arrived when word of the ambush reached the stronghold, was still armed at the stables and so the first out the doors to search for Legolas. His band of elves, the fiery Nethor included, scrambled behind him. Not to be outdone was Legolas' own collection of champions, headed by his lieutenant, Golwenil. More would follow them.

All too quickly, there were more volunteer soldiers than was needed to venture out. But elves had been killed. Someone had come close enough to hurt their King. The Prince himself was still in danger. It could not stand. It could not be tolerated.

Elves streamed from the gates of the stronghold in well-ordered waves of wrath, just as darkness fell and stars shot across the sky at a rate of thousands for every minute. The soldiers darting forward mirrored the stars that shot across the sky, just above them. Not that anyone paid it any real mind.

It wasn't until Captain Melchanar emerged from the forest, with a bleeding and barely-coherent Legolas leaning heavily on his shoulders that anyone remembered to look up at the skies and see the stunning show of lights.

It was a promise of bright days to carry them through the winter, scrawled across the heavens by what could only be godly hands.

# # #

To the eternal relief of everyone who knew Thranduil, his son was found before he regained consciousness.

Brenion, for one, shuddered to think at what would have happened if that were not the case. Restraining the wounded King and keeping him from searching for Legolas himself would have been in the cards. A quick execution of those who had let Legolas go about his mad little plan was also a possibility. Not that it mattered much for Brenion, who had a feeling that Legolas was right and that his fate was already anyway sealed – Thranduil was not likely to forgive his part in supporting Legolas' defiance, whether or not he ended up being right in saving all of them.

 _"He might kill you either way, Brenion,"_ the insufferable elf had teased him, shortly before rushing off into danger.

There were no traces of that rueful grin now, Brenion thought, watching grimly as Legolas was brought into the healing halls. He was not badly hurt, but exhausted beyond measure. Captain Melchanar, who had brought him in, reported a veritable sea of felled enemies in the path that eventually led him and his patrol to where the prince and his royal guard were eventually found. The two elves were the last ones standing, if stumbling along and tugging on each other to move drunkenly forward could be called that.

Legolas' guard was tended in the main hall while the Prince was brought into the private space set aside for the royals, at a curtained alcove at the end of the wards. He was sat on the edge of a bed across from the one occupied by his sleeping father.

The soldiers who brought them home were dismissed at the doors, save for Captain Melchanar who had Legolas in his arms, as well as the seniority to insist on carrying the Prince however long he damn well pleased. The healers decided to make good use of his strength and muscle while he made a nuisance of himself there. Maenor, head of the healing wards, gave rapt instructions to him as well as to the elves that surrounded them.

Melchanar held Legolas steady by the shoulders, while a bevy of attendants stripped the Prince of his armor, quiver, tunic and shirts. Legolas' rival captain kept him from falling as the other elves maneuvered his trembling body however way they willed, lifting his arms to free his sleeves, pulling at the shirts over his head and disentangling them from the messy strands of his golden hair. Someone tugged hard enough to disentangle the circlet Legolas had plucked from Thranduil's head, and it almost fell to the ground if not for Melchanar's quick reflexes. He held the kingly bauble in one hand reverently and with surprise. He knew who owned it, but could not comprehend why it was on Legolas' head until the gears started turning in his head. His eyes dawned with realization, and he clutched at it reflexively, before laying it beside Legolas' hip.

The elf prince was beyond noticing it, or much of anything else. One side of his face was bruised and swollen, and there were a miscellany of cuts and bruises on all exposed parts of his skin. He'd also become a boneless, quivering mass barely able to keep his eyes open, much less stay seated or engage with the elves around him. The hours of intense fighting had driven him to mindless exhaustion and near collapse. Once divested of his clothes, it was clear too that he was hurting in less visible ways. The skin on his chest was a mottled mess of blues, purples, reds, and blacks.

"Talk to him, Melchanar," Maenor murmured up at the captain, as he examined Legolas' chest for breaks and bleeding. "I want to know if his thinking is intact."

Legolas was alert enough to hear it, because there was an easy joke to retort to that ( _"When has it ever been intact?"_ ), except Melchanar was not so quick in that department. Humor was one talent the gifted soldier found in short supply. The Prince, who snobbishly liked thinking he had it in abundance, snorted, and Maenor looked up at him with a wicked, approving grin. The healer had indeed meant to bait Legolas with it, having long been aware of the younger elf's perverse sense of humor.

"Do you know where you are, Legolas?" Melchanar asked, slowly, deliberately and obtusely, in accordance with Maenor's instructions. He was a good soldier and a well-meaning elf. He was all angles, an unfortunate, square peg.

Legolas nodded, but what movement he managed was lost in his body's erratic shaking, and he had no strength yet for words. Melchanar looked at Maenor with some alarm, thinking Legolas was not in a proper state of mind.

The healer, who had already figured Legolas was relatively well – no heavy internal or external bleeding, no bones requiring surgery, no poison, no severe concussion – took pity on the guileless captain and gave him another task to occupy himself with instead.

"Help him rinse his mouth," Maenor said to Melchanar, who was quickly assisted by an attendant who had a glass of fragrant water and an empty bowl. Melchanar did as instructed and took the glass from the elf to place before Legolas' mouth. The Prince was desperately thirsty and almost drank it, before Melchanar stopped him.

"No," he said sternly, "Rinse out first." He took the bowl from Maenor's apprentice and placed it beneath the Prince's chin. Legolas spat out a mouthful of blood-red water; there was cut inside his mouth, and maybe from some loosened teeth. It took them several rounds before the fragrant water, which was tinged with something minty to help disinfect a wound in the mouth, ran clear. Only afterwards was Legolas allowed a drink of water, which he partook of greedily. It was laced with a painkiller that revived him somewhat, allowing Melchanar to step away. It became clear quickly that Legolas was both able to more or less hold himself up, and increasingly embarrassed by his rival's help.

The Prince quietly and resignedly suffered the other elves' ministrations. There were stitches to a sluggishly bleeding wound on the side of his head, another set to his left arm and another set on a diagonal line across his back. There were salves slathered on bruises, bandages on large cuts and wraps wound on bruised and broken ribs. He winced, hissed and growled on occasion, but otherwise kept his head low and his eyes half-shuttered to preserve his strength. He was cleaned with cool cloths that smelled of healing herbs, while thick, hot towels were placed on his main fighting arm, which trembled harder than any other part of him. He sighed contentedly as it eased his discomfort.

When he lifted his head and smiled, looking at something abstract from behind Melchanar, however, he gave his healers a momentary pause. Was he really well, or beginning to see things? They followed his gaze to find the King Thranduil awake, and from the looks of things, he had been for some time. The Elvenking was sitting up with a forbidding expression on his face as he watched his son being tended.

The King was awake. He was aware.

And he looked murderous.

It all but bounced off of Legolas, however, going by the Prince's smiling, sublime countenance. He let himself rest then, and fell forward as he let his eyes drift close. Melchanar caught him cleanly, and settled him on his back on the bed.

# # #

Legolas woke to the King glaring at him, seated on the bed across his own. Either Thranduil had the most astute senses and knew Legolas would soon wake, or he'd just been glowering at his sleeping son the whole time, waiting to let his displeasure be known. Legolas wouldn't put either one past his father.

"You are not forgiven," Thranduil said to him vehemently.

"I am not sorry," Legolas said. He was trying to be funny but found that he very much meant it.

Thranduil closed his eyes in consternation and took a deep, calming breath. For a long moment, there was only heavy silence.

Legolas took it as a moment to rise to a posture of less vulnerability. He rose up to his elbows. They trembled, but held. He knew he had a litany of small grievances, but nothing too serious. He and the guard who had been with him as he distracted his father's hunters, had managed to avoid fatal orc-ish encounters for the most part. They did just as he promised and avoided engaging until they were caught and had no other choice.

It seemed to him as if they fought off wave after wave of enemies, and it was with much surprise that he eventually found the two of them alive at the end of it all. They emerged extremely fatigued, dehydrated, cold and heavily bruised, but alive.

 _Alive..._

He played with the word with a sense of wonder, and sat up straighter. Though his vision wavered and his stomach churned, they settled quickly. He leaned against the ornate headboard behind him, and looked across the way at Thranduil.

The King looked slightly pale but almost back to strength; one would spot the thick bandages on his injured arm only if one looked really closely. He was in lesser robes and seated on a relatively simple bed in a room that was more pragmatic than royal, but he still made it look like a throne.

Except, of course, he was without crown or circlet. When Legolas' eyes drifted about the familiar room, he found the King's property sitting demurely on the nightstand beside his own bed. He winced at having taken it from Thranduil's golden head earlier.

He pushed the blankets away from his body and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Thranduil was contemplating giving his rebellious son the silent treatment, but he couldn't for the life of him keep himself for asking, "What do you think you're doing?"

Legolas wordlessly reached for the circlet and started to push himself to his feet.

"Keep your seat," the King hissed at him.

"This was misplaced," Legolas murmured, "I only mean to restore it to its proper owner."

"For once in your life just do as you are told," Thranduil snapped. It was unfair and they both knew it, but the King was never one for apologies and at any rate, Legolas neither expected them to come nor needed them to move on.

The younger elf stayed where he was and played with the crown in his hands. He looked like an elfling in Thranduil's eye – no warriors' braids or warriors' ways to tame his hair (or his autonomous disposition). He also seemed much slighter when unburdened by his weapons and armor. And like an elfling, he was pretending preoccupation as a means of escaping the immediate consequences of having just been scolded.

"I know you are angry with me," Legolas said without looking up, "and you have some right to be-"

"Some!"

"-but I implore you to keep such rage fixed upon me and on no one else," Legolas said. "Let me keep the word I'd given those who had been with us when I told them I would carry the consequences of our collective defiance. Let me and me alone bear the burden of your resentment."

"You have some gall to place upon me the burden of word you've so recklessly given to others!" Thranduil hollered. "I will be as angry as I want, for as long and as deeply as I want, to whoever I want!"

"That is your right," Legolas conceded.

Thranduil's eyes narrowed in irritation. He had initially wanted to ignore his son and subject him to angry silence, perhaps for a few hours, perhaps for a few days, perhaps for a yen. But Legolas simply made it impossible. Now that Thranduil had been goaded by his son into speaking and responding – no matter how furiously – it's as if he had forfeited his right to further stony silence and this only angered him more.

"I really am at a loss as to what to do with you at times!"

"I can believe that," Legolas agreed softly. "I suppose, if you had had someone like Melchanar for a-" He caught himself and shook the thought away, steering it instead to a safer, tangential topic. "Do I remember correctly in that it was he who had rescued and held me?"

Thranduil frowned. "What are you blabbering on about?" he asked, but some part of him knew it was important, and though he was sorely tempted to let it go because doing so would be much easier, he decided against it. He sighed.

"Yes, it was Melchanar. But I would hardly call his retrieval of you a rescue. His party found you and your guard stumbling along together, not at all far from our gates. They reported you left a trail of orc bodies somewhere. He and a good number of his soldiers have been badgering us hour after hour asking of you, testing my patience almost as much as the constant badgering I am getting from Golwenil, that giant Silvan of yours and the rest of your company. They want to assure themselves of your welfare. Melchanar, on the other hand, is eager for an apology, I imagine."

Legolas' brows rose. "Whatever for?"

"Child's play and tricks," Thranduil answered. "I think it has dawned on your peers how we both managed to live through this attack. Your ways are not so misplaced in combat after all, are they? But you knew that. You've always known. Even before anyone else."

Legolas gave him a small smile.

"And so by your machinations we are all somehow returned safe here," Thranduil added.

The small light in Legolas' eyes dimmed. "I guess it really isn't by the usual way. I am sorry, _ada_."

"You cannot help who you are and how you think," said Thranduil cautiously, "Are you really apologizing for that, but not for defying your King?"

"I sensed your disapproval over our victory earlier," Legolas explained. He scratched at the back of his neck in chagrin. He still had the circlet in his hands, and it was such a poor, poor use of it. Thranduil winced but kept the thought to himself.

"I guess someone like Melchanar would have done things properly both at the games and likely, in getting you home safe too," Legolas said, "Someone like Melchanar would have thought of something else and succeeded just as well. Maybe better."

"You think I disapproved of how you won and ultimately, the tactics employed when you brought your King home?" Thranduil asked, aghast. They've been through so much this day and Legolas was falsely worried about that?

"You seemed troubled after I spoke of our victory."

"Oh, _ion-nin_ ," Thranduil sighed. Again. By the grace of the gods he'd not run out of breath yet. "I was proud you won and of how you did it. It is not how I – or I suspect anyone else – would have done so, but that is our failing, not yours."

"Yet you seemed displeased."

"Golwenil," Thranduil said, and even now, the memory of the 'blonde' lieutenant disguised as his son swathed in red made him wince. "Your second-in-command. She was lost, and all but swimming in blood. Your plan to risk her... well. I could not help but wonder how it would translate on the field of a real battle. Either you were willing to subject one soldier to a brutal fate – a hard decision I would never wish upon you but I know you will one day have to make – or you were willing to sacrifice yourself. She was supposed to be you, Legolas, and she came out of that game not just dead but savagely so. It could have been you. I did not like that thought.

"And then when we were in a situation of real danger," Thranduil continued, "I had the misfortune of seeing how easily you were willing to sacrifice yourself." He shook his head at the memory. "That is unacceptable to me, Legolas. It is brave and admirable and selfless and sometimes right, but absolutely unacceptable to me as your father and as your King."

"You give me too much credit," Legolas said. "It's not from some sense of valor that I do what I do. There is no sacrifice in it. I don't take risks, father. I find ways. I make plans."

Thranduil gave him a very royal scoff. "You're not reckless then, as a matter of fact you are a planner?"

"I'm not brave or selfless," Legolas said. "I just always think I can win."

"I do not know if this comforts or terrifies me," Thranduil said flatly. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose tiredly. It was an odd way of looking at the world, as if it were made all around of pulleys and levers – objectives that needed to be done, and ways to do it.

"When I think of something I can do to remedy a situation," Legolas went on, "I can't not do it, can I?"

"I've decided this is terrifying," Thranduil informed his son.

Legolas pressed his lips to a grim line and shrugged.

He really was still an elfling, Tharnduil reflected, despite all his skills and achievements. Only young children could have so few fears to check their impulses; all they saw were desired outcomes, and ways to get there.

Thranduil had seen his son in training and regularly read reports of his achievements in the field. He knew Legolas was rising up to be amongst the Realm's, and perhaps even their entire kin's, finest warriors, and for this he was glad.

As Thranduil's son, Legolas' honorary title as Prince of Mirkwood was equivalent to that of a war General - with unfettered access to the King's immediate counsel, a considerable voice and vote in the ministers' tables, unrestricted levels of intelligence reports, and command of any soldiers and supplies he cared to requisition for whichever mission he felt was necessary, as long as the King permitted it. In this style he was _Hir-nin_ , "my lord," or Thranduilion – the King's son.

In the field of battle, Thranduil and thankfully, Legolas' own preference was to keep the order of the soldierly hierarchy. He deferred to higher authority, and distinguished himself by his own merits. He rose to the rank of Captain simply as "Legolas Greenleaf."

One day, Thranduil hoped that the height of Legolas' achievements would match his honorary title, such that he would be General in name as well as in deed; by virtue of his birthright as well as his accomplishments. He was certainly believed by many to be well on that path. He was a great warrior, everyone said, and soon he might even be the best.

But their recent close call was giving Thranduil some pause. Being a leader was not just about being a warrior. Being a leader entailed strategy and creativity which his son clearly never lacked, but it also required patience, restraint and in a sense, dispassion – and these were distinct weaknesses.

Could Legolas keep himself from diving into the front lines? Could he accept defeat and sound a prudent retreat? Could he leave a soldier behind if needed? Could he order his men to their deaths? Could he watch them die? Could he disregard individual needs – like his love for his father - for collective gains - like the preservation of their kingdom? The answer to the latter was a resounding no.

The conservative course of action when Thranduil was bleeding to death and they were about to be set upon outnumbered by orcs in the forest, was to preserve the line of succession and flee. It would have been the right choice. Legolas defied his father the King and ultimately succeeded in saving all of them through his skills and cunning, yes, but also undoubtedly through good fortune. And the survival of their kingdom could not be trusted to fate so callously.

It's just that... it was so hard to impart such a lesson to Legolas because he always ended up being right, didn't he? How could Thranduil possibly teach Legolas the virtues of a wise retreat, of reserve, of cutting losses, of the necessity of compromise, of wins that looked like losses and losses that were still wins if only because you managed to come out alive - if the younger elf always seemed to beat the odds and get his way? And one could only win so much, in this life of theirs.

Thranduil knew, by the gods how badly did he know, for through shrinking kingdoms and brutal battles that have claimed those he loved, did he somehow still see his people through. They were still standing, and still had ground to claim as their own. By brash, uncompromising action their people were near-decimated, once. Was he to lose his son the same way he lost his father?

"May you never know defeat," Thranduil could only say, quietly. It was a father's wish, and he meant it with all his heart. If he cannot teach his son how to find a win he could live with even while in defeat, then all he could hope for was that Legolas would never know it.

Legolas' brows furrowed and he tilted his head at his father in confusion.

"One day," Thranduil told his son, "and I would never wish this upon you, but you need to know it, Legolas. One day, nothing you do will ever be enough to win everything. Do you understand? That being right and being smart and being the best still won't be enough. I need to know that you can stop, take stock, and know when to pull back."

"Well that day was not today."

Thranduil rubbed at his eyes tiredly. No. That day was not today. They survived. Legolas was right. Thranduil sighed. Again. So what else was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to do with his golden child, blessed with a scandalous abundance of luck but not with hard life lessons?

"I need to know you value your life."

"I do!" Legolas exclaimed, exasperated. "Seriously, _ada_. I am not sure what you want of me. If something is wrong, should I not rectify it? If I am able to remedy a situation, should I not do it?"

"Yes but," Thranduil sputtered, searching his own mind. "Yes but I need you to include, in whatever calculations you make in that head of yours, some consideration of your life! If not for your sake, then mine. If you see the world as objectives and actions, then for the love of the gods, and by order of your King – include personal survival in those objectives once in a while. Is that so difficult? Is it too much to ask?"

Legolas frowned in thought. "No."

The simplicity of the response caught Thranduil by surprise, and he wondered for a brief moment if he was being glibly handled. His eyes widened in anger at the thought of that.

"It is not so difficult," Legolas said quickly but carefully, reading his father's face. "I will adjust accordingly, as the King bids it. As my father asks. But do not ask me to second-guess myself, _ada_. By my decisions I will live and die, or win and lose. Do not ask me to hesitate. I cannot... I cannot go out there and survive like that. It is death too. I suppose sometimes there is just death... everywhere."

Thranduil closed his eyes in sadness and sighed, wishing he could give his child a better world. When he opened them again, Legolas was on his feet and walking toward him with the King's circlet. The younger elf was shaky, but as he strode forward he became steadier until he was standing beside his father's bed. He handed the small but intricate crown to his father reverently, with palms open and his head lowered in deference.

"This belongs to you _aran-nin_ ," Legolas said quietly. "I am sorry to have taken it, more sorry than you know. I have a profound dislike of wearing it, you see. That story only ends in one way."

In Thranduil's death, as they both knew. Legolas, after all, could only be crowned King with the passing of his father. And so, again like a child, he simply never wanted to wear it.

Thranduil reached for the offering, and let his fingers brush the warm palms of Legolas' hands. He rested his hands over Legolas' heavily, and their skin touched palm to palm in between the whorls of spun metal that comprised the crown, a crown that was both their gift and their curse to wear.

Without warning, Legolas' hands clutched tightly at his father's, and the metal of the crown bit against both their palms, hard.

"If it were the other way around," Legolas said, eyes up and intent against his father's face, now. "Would you have left me?"

There was a ready lie on the King's lips. "Yes."

Legolas tightened his grip. "You shouldn't lie."

"Every day that I send you out to the field could be your death," Thranduil pointed out while trying to shake free of his son's hold. "I risk the loss of you, _ion-nin_ , every single day. Do not doubt my resolve. I am not lying."

Legolas refused to yield. "Risk is not the same as certain death," he argued. "Please stop lying to me."

"What do you want to hear?" Thranduil snapped, "I shall say it. Just to put an end to this ridiculousness."

"The fate of our kingdom is at stake," Legolas said softly, "and I am bleeding to death on the ground. Would you leave me?"

The truth was, Thranduil was not sure. But with a silent prayer and apology sent up to his late wife, he stuck to his confident lie. "I would have left you. Does that disappoint?"

Legolas shook his head, and let his father shake off his grip. He looked away. "I don't know what I want to hear, other than that I would have the truth. That you withhold it is the disappointment."

Thranduil bit his lip in thought.

"I'd like to think I would have," the King said finally, after a long moment of silence. "I don't know if I truly could, but if I had to leave you – I'd like to think I would. I need to believe I can do it. Like you said, Captain, there is no second-guessing ourselves here. It's how we survive."

Legolas nodded in understanding. "Thank you for your honesty, _adar_. Your answer... gives me better perspective. The price of love in this day and age – it is steep, isn't it?"

"It is near prohibitive," Thranduil agreed, quietly. "I have the luxury of trusting I can defy it in theory. I am sorry you had to make a decision in fact, Legolas."

"You are alive and we are together," said the younger elf. "I am comfortable with the choices I've made. I do not regret. I cannot." His lip turned up in the beginnings of a smile – and a joke. "I do regret one thing – that I missed the _Alaglach_. All those stars streaking across the sky..." He sighed longingly. "And in this my yen of victory too."

Thranduil frowned. "How long do you think you've been asleep?"

Legolas started, and he let himself hope, because he never feared disappointment if he was wrong. He could weather it. He could always weather it.

"Is it still the same day?"

"The celebrations have been canceled," Thranduil said. "But the stars still shoot as we speak. You haven't been unconscious for very long; they should be doing so for the next hour, until the first light of dawn."

Legolas perked up. "We should sit beneath the stars, _adar_." He hesitated. "That is, if you are allowed to be away from bed."

Thranduil snorted at him. "I am doing better than you, princeling, and have been given leave to return to my own quarters at leisure, as if they could have ever stopped me. You, on the other hand, have barely rested from your ordeal."

"Time is scarce and I cannot miss it," Legolas said excitedly. "I will take care, I promise. It is such a wonder to behold, _adar_ , I cannot wait until the next one 144 years from now, it would be a travesty!"

Thranduil rolled back his eyes. "The healers will insist on examining you before granting permission. They will arrange for an escort, and trappings to keep you warm and comfortable. You will walk with them to the outdoors almost assuredly at a snail's pace, even if you did not need to disentangle yourself from all your well-wishers lingering outside seeking word on your care. Leave it be, Legolas. You will not be outside in the next hour, not even in the next two or three."

The elven Captain bit his lip in thought. Thranduil kept himself from groaning in dread. _Ai Elbereth_ the irrepressible elf was a wellspring of ideas both good and bad, and today he seemed intent on ensnaring his father in yet another scheme.

"I have a quick, quiet way out," Legolas said cautiously. "But I need your word that what you discover here cannot be used against me in the future."

"I do not even want to think about what that means."

"Ah," Legolas grinned, "As the King said – that lack of imagination is your failure, not mine."

# # #

To put it simply, they snuck out.

Legolas, long the bane of Maenor and his staff of harried healers, knew their halls and routines well. Once appraised of his father of the time, he had decent knowledge of where everyone would be and when. Clad in simple robes and stolen cloaks, with blankets in their arms, father and son evaded their 'captors' and left the healing wards without incident. The same went for the occasional well-meaning soldier awaiting word of their health, milling about the healing wards or just outside of it, as well as the roaming night guards they avoided in the King's Halls.

"I've had that horrid, mundane assignment several times before," Legolas explained his acute knowledge to his father quietly. "While I was recovering from an injury, or as punishment for some transgression or other."

"I likely put you there," Thranduil said wryly. Inside, he was displeased by the lapses in security. Deeper within, a mischievous part of him laughed and clawed at his heart, marveling at his son's cunning.

Their last hurdle were gate guards they could not escape, not that they needed to at that point. Thranduil stood before them and simply commanded the doors be opened, and they, unquestioning, did as they were told by their King. He then led the way out the stronghold, and through a path among the trees to the forest river.

The water was tree-lined, but along its considerable length, there were outcroppings of flat-topped rocks and patches of riverbank, unobscured by the thick canopy of branches and leaves that otherwise dominated their proud woods.

On these bare patches along the water, one could simply look up and watch the stars. In some sections where the waters were still, it was like a mirror reflecting the skies, such that there were shooting stars overhead and also upon the earth.

On _Alaglach_ celebrations past, the elves of their woods would have a short ceremony to honor the stars, then line the unobscured riverbanks with blankets and cushions, and sit in small groups of families and friends to watch the heavens above. There would be quiet chatter and soft music, simple food and excellent drink. The King and his son would walk about their people, sharing greetings and felicitations, toasting to the gods. When Legolas got older, he partook of the Dor-winion too, and would be asked about his training and the Yen War Games that were also typical of the day.

Tonight, with the celebrations suspended, the banks were cleared of all company and merriment, and the only ones around were Thranduil and Legolas and the stars.

Legolas had been looking forward to walking amongst his people while suffused with victory from the War Games, but this was beautiful and unforgettable in its own precious way.

He arranged his blanket on a flat rock that jutted from the banks and slightly over the river. It was the perfect spot. When his father stooped to do the same, he tugged at the cloth in an attempt to wrest it from Thranduil's hands. He felt a small resistance before the King yielded the item to Legolas and he arranged it for his father.

They sat down together, Thranduil grunting and keeping his injured arm close to his chest, and Legolas breathing hard from lingering exhaustion coupled with the strain of their hurried pace to get here.

"What a pair we make," he said mildly. From the corner of his eye, he could see one side of his father's lips turn up in an appreciative, ironic smile.

They tilted their heads up to watch the skies. It was like a crafty old wizard's fireworks, but with more reserve, and more nuance. There were little sparks, irregular shapes, and asymmetrical bursts of light. Sometimes they opened like unfurling petals, other times they exploded violently before running in all directions of erratic curves and jagged streaks. Sometimes the starlight burst forth like children racing in a field; with reckless abandon, and all the length and breadth of the world was ahead of them. They were its light.

"They aren't soaring," Thranduil said softly. "People forget sometimes. They are falling. It is a fiery end."

Legolas was agog and breathless. "Oh but ada – how brilliantly do they burn."

Thranduil breathed in the night air, and pondered that. He did not have to fear for his only child's incandescent spirit, oh no. But good gods he had to learn to survive it with his sanity intact.

"Our captors approach," Legolas said softly, a beat before Thranduil too sensed the rustle of discreet but harried and purposeful footsteps.

"I think they fancy themselves our rescuers," the King said.

"Sometimes it's all a matter of perspective," Legolas said lightly.

Unbeknownst to them, they turned at exactly the same time in exactly the same way, just as Brenion, Maenor, Melchanar, Golwenil and a few other elves armed to the teeth broke out of the woods behind them.

Thranduil raised an inquiring eyebrow at them, daring them to question him for his part in the father-and-son escape. Legolas, on the other hand, greeted the arrivals with a sheepish grin and a merry wave.

Brenion grinned back. Maenor shook his head and rolled his eyes in resignation. Golwenil was quick to realize all was well, and ordered her and Legolas' troops to a discreet retreat. Captain Melchanar just looked confused, before bowing at Legolas and the King gravely and making his own exit.

Before long, father and son were alone again. The stars shot over their heads and the two elves watched the gods' great show until sunlight shone over the horizon and obscured by its brilliance the winking light of the distant stars. The night was done, marking the beginnings of a new day. It had been a tough one, but they were alive and they were together to welcome a new season.

 _The furious light of the Alaglach gives us strength and warmth for the coming shade and cold_ , the King had said but a few hours earlier, _It reminds us that the brightest stars shine most brilliantly in the dark – in the heavens above, and within our own people on the Earth_.

Father and son would hold the gods, and each other, to that sacred promise.

THE END

April 30, 2018

* * *

 **AFTERWORD**

* * *

 **I. On the Feast Day, _The Alaglach_ or "Rushing Flame"**

Totally made up, lol. I picked it up from a combination of the Sindarin "lach," a noun for flame + Noldorin "alag," adjective for rushing or impetuous. I'm not sure of the grammatical rules on which to place first, the adjective or the noun. I'm also not sure if it is wise to mix Sindarin + Noldorin, but I thought, since they share some words, I took some liberties. I know the Tolkien linguists might skewer me on this score, but my knowledge is limited and I am always open to be educated – if gently, haha.

Anyway, grammatical rules aside, I imagine the "Alaglach" to be like a feast for a rare meteor shower, symbolic of shooting stars, which is a representation of the talents on display in the war games.

In coming up with this feast day, I used our own annual meteor showers, like the Perseids and Leonids, as a benchmark. The latter in particular, had a legendary storm in November 13, 1833 wherein there was like, 72,000 shooting stars per hour. That's 20 shooting stars per second! Scary at the time, but must have been breathtaking to see too. Also, mid-November would be a waning crescent moon, so it would be dark enough to see these stars even more brilliantly.

I looked up the Elven Calendar at The Lord of the Rings Wiki (at lotr . wikia . com) to see where a date like this might fit, and lo and behold, on November 13th, the "quellë" (Quenya) / "firith" (Sindarin) / Fading (English) ends, which starts the winter. In short, the timing somehow made sense, haha.

Unlike the Perseids and Leonids of its inspiration, however, I thought the Alaglach shouldn't be annual. I thought it would be more special to have the phenomenon occur only once every 144 years or "yen" to the elves.

The "Alaglach" as it is celebrated in Mirkwood – where people gather outdoors without much ceremony but just to bask in nature with friends and family and food and music - is inspired by the Hanami in Japan. During cherry blossom season in the spring, their parks are just filled with people on picnics or just sitting together on mats and blankets beneath the shade of these glorious blooms of ombre pink and white. It was a delightful experience for me, and an unforgettable one. For those who cannot try it our firsthand – Google images! The photos speak for themselves ;)

 **II. The Characters**

On Legolas. I have a hard time depicting him in defeat, I really do. One of these days this is something I might have to push myself to trying for the creative test of it, but I just can't do it yet. "The Games We Play" though, is I think the closest I've ever come to him falling somewhat short of expectations. He is still the best at what he does, but with a twist – it's not out of heroism or sacrifice, but an almost childlike pragmatism. He just sees objectives and outcomes and ways to do it. He doesn't think of himself as a hero, he just does things. I think that's even more heroic, in a way. But that lack of self-awareness is a weakness too.

I love watching Orlando Bloom play him in the movies, and you see the wheels turning in his head. Like in Battle of Five Armies, and you see him trying to figure out how to get to Tauriel from a tower, or in Return of the King, and he looks at the mumakil Aragorn sort of just ordered him to deal with and he is contemplating how to bring it down. That is the foundations of the Legolas in this fic – the warrior that sees the world as a series of pulleys and levers he can manipulate to get to what he needs to do. He doesn't think of what it may cost him, he doesn't think about losing or failing, he just tries to find ways.

It's admirable, but I also look at him from a parent's eye lately, a marked change since I became a mom. I imagine how I would feel as a parent if I knew my kid was taking all of these ridiculous risks, and the conflict comes out – when he sees a problem and knows he can do something about it, shouldn't he do it? Isn't that what being a good person is about? Isn't that what we hope our kids would be?

On Thranduil. Here he struggles with the same thing. Should he tell his son to cut back from risk? And if his son somehow ends up being right all the time, how can he impart lessons that can curb an undesired behavior?

The conflict is unresolved here, just as my real life one isn't, and I suspect it will never be for parents raising kids in a tough world. You cannot divorce a story from the historical context in which it was written, even if it is "just" fanfiction, after all. I'm finding it hard to ask my kid not to be a hero, but also worried of what will happen if he decides to be one. Do you, for example, tell your kid not to stand up to a bully or worse, a school shooter or a terrorist? Do you keep them from say, enlisting in the armed forces? When kids decide to be heroes, they thrust their own parents into heroic positions of sacrifice too, even if the parents do not choose it themselves.

 **III. Thank You's**

I would like to say a shout out to everyone who sent me kind words and constructive criticism for this story. I usually do PMs on signed reviews, but I've been writing and writing and posting on this story or that story and now I don't even know where to start. I thought, as always, that the best way to express my thanks is to share a tale and finis it first :) Personal thanks will be on their way, but until then, I would like to express my appreciation for:

3326freespirit, AraneltheSilvan, ArwenFairTinuviel, Cinija Nicija, Cling0514, Guest, Hawaiichick, Horsegirl01, Lord of the Gauntlets, pandorias and SuicidalQueen.

I hope you enjoyed reading "The Games We Play..." as much as I enjoyed writing it. I am not exaggerating when I say that readers and reviewers are muses to me too. You stimulate thought, inspire action and encourage community.

 **IV. Future Projects**

I will be posting more one-shots in "The Halls of My Home." In the next few days or weeks I will be putting up "Great Lengths" there, which had been posted as a bonus fic to "Recoveries." For those who didn't get to read to the end of my admittedly rather long-winded afterword where it appeared, the summary is as follows:

 _Legolas returns from the dangerous Southern outpost missing something he knows his father will be very sorry to lose – long strands of his golden hair._

I might post it as-is, but I wouldn't be surprised if I look through and found a few things I'd want to change with fresh eyes.

I am working on an entirely new story to add to "The Halls of My Home" collection too (probably why I am so eager to just post what I owe so that I can move on already lol), so I do hope you follow "The Halls of My Home," as most of my new fics will probably be posted here, unless they run away from me the same way "The Games We Play" had.

So this is me for now :) Thanks for reading, as always comments and constructive criticism are welcome, and I wish everyone all the best in their RL and creative lives!


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